Although I’m a child of the 70’s I really don’t relate to most people my age. I lived with my paternal grandparents in South Buffalo until the age of 7 and (seeing that our trio was as inseparable as the three amigos) I accompanied them on just about every outing. During the daylight hours these outings typically amounted to the one major pastime most active seniors are known for …visiting. These visits, more often than not, were broken down into three specific categories and were usually carried out in the following sequence: visiting the sick at home (before their frail bodies were thrown into a hospital bed), visiting the sick at the hospital (before their lifeless cadavers were thrown into a casket) and visiting the dead at the funeral home (before their rigored corpses were thrown into a hole in the ground). Morbid, yes, but, that’s just the way it was with my grandparents. As crazy as it may sound, if I went more than a few days without venturing for some “visiting” things just felt off. It was ingrained in me and had become a part of my daily routine.Speaking of which, the evenings had their own routine. As if seeing off sick old people into the hereafter wasn’t entertaining enough, I was raised to believe that appropriate forms of night time recreation were
comprised of two things: television and reading. The first option was divided into three acceptable classifications: cop shows like the Streets of San Francisco, variety shows such as the one hosted by Lola Falana, and situation comedies like Chico and the Man. (Yes, my grandparents were master couch potatoes and I was their couch potato protégé.) The second option, reading, was closely monitored by my grandmother. This was mostly due in part to my grandfather’s penchant for nudie girl magazines of which he was notorious for haphazardly stashing amongst the piles of “decent” publications they horded and kept stockpiled throughout the house. I say “decent” because in my grandma’s eyes even the sears catalog was considered to be lude and inappropriate and she, herself, often felt compelled to justify her possession of it by stating her profession (she was a seamstress) demanded she keep up with the trends. 
I say all this not because I want you to take pity on me for living with two crazy people but, to justify why, at the ripe old age of 5 or 6, I turned to a life of crime for in the monotony of my life I had resorted to stealing unauthorized copies of REDBOOK, READERS DIGEST, LADIES HOME JOURNAL, THE BUFFALO NEWS and whatever else I could get my hands on. It was at this stage of my life that not knowing how to read taught me two things: (1) how to blame my grandpa for taking the publications when confronted by my grandma (why not? He was gonna get in trouble anyway), and, (2) how to appreciate the pictures when the words just didn’t makes sense.It was during these desperate times that my attempts to find respite in something other than my grandparents’ weird obsession with death, celebrity and censorship that I fell upon my first series of Norman Rockwell images. I’m not all together sure if it was the POST or BOYS LIFE, but, whatever it was it affected me. Perhaps, the impact stemmed from it being my first exposure to normalcy…even though the people looked a little weird…they seemed to ooze this sense of everlasting joy of life. This gave me hope. I, too, would one day be just like one of those Rockwell characters. I would be a kid…with other kids…and it would be okay. Don’t get me wrong, my grandparents were great…very amusing but, looking at Rockwell’s work was magical for me. The draw of a wholesome happy everyday America resonated with me even though I hadn’t a clue who crafted the images at the time, nor did I care.
Perhaps, it is this same everyday American magic that continues to keep me both nostalgic and hopeful.
Thanks Norman.
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